The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell Read Online Free PDF Page B

the portrait?” she said.
    “I’ve already told you,” he replied, loud enough for the artist to hear, “that I do not think Master Gheerhaerts is doing justice to your beauty.”
    The queen was used to indiscriminate flattery, knew most of it to be false, but demanded it all the same. It had become a ritualized form of greeting that was necessary before genuine conversation could begin.
    “How are Frances and little Robert?”
    “Excellent, Your Majesty. She sends you her love . . . as does my mother,” he added, quite surprising himself, as he had not expected to raise the subject of Lettice this day.
    “Is she still yearning for an audience?” Elizabeth asked, taking his arm and indicating that he should escort her from the room. With a tap on the door, it flew open and the two of them exited into the corridor.
    “You know she is,” said Essex.
    “Then she shall have one.”
    He was bemused by Elizabeth’s sudden acquiescence on so prickly a matter.
    “Arrange it for next week.”
    “I’m most grateful, and so will my mother be.” He felt his heart suddenly thumping in his chest. This was a great coup. Lettice would be overwhelmed. But he must carefully steer her from any ostentatious displays in either her dress or mode of transport to the meeting. It would not do for her to arrive for the long awaited occasion arrayed in one of her expensive French gowns, riding like royalty in a gilded carriage pulled by six plumed, white stallions. His mind raced. The queen’s mood was more than affable today. Should he broach the Farm of Sweet Wines, or Bacon’s appointment? Or should he perhaps consider mentioning neither of them? He pondered the question as they moved with stately grandeur down the long corridor. Every man who passed stopped and bowed. Ladies ceased their tittering and gossip and dropped into deep, solemn curtsies.
    “So,” said Essex, “shall we play at cards this evening? Or dice?”
    “Neither,” said the queen. “You already owe me far too much money.
    You, my lord, cannot afford to lose another shilling. In fact,” she added, “I am wondering when I shall see my three thousand pounds repaid to me.” He had his opening!
    “I was thinking just now, Your Majesty, that if I were granted the Farm of Sweet Wines, I could easily repay the debt. Within a year. Two at the most.”
    “The Farm of Sweet Wines?”
    Elizabeth appeared surprised by the request, but he knew she was playing with him. Like the Mastership of the Horse, the Farm had been one of Leicester’s grants—indeed his predecessor’s principal source of income.
    “That is a very rich gift you are suggesting I make you, my lord.” Her voice and mood were suddenly unreadable. Essex knew he was on dangerous ground.
    “Perhaps if you made your queen a gift . . .” she began but didn’t finish, as her attention was drawn to the figure now approaching them. “Ah, Robert.” She extended her hand to be kissed by the graceless Robert Cecil.
    Essex seethed quietly. The Gnome had destroyed his moment.
    “Your Majesty. My lord Essex.” Cecil’s voice was urgent. “I’ve just learned that an enemy of England has had the temerity to sail upriver and dock at the castle quay.”
    “An enemy of England?” said Elizabeth. “Who?”
    “The Irish rebel, Your Majesty. The woman . . . the pirate . . . Grace O’Malley. She is”—Cecil was flustered and could barely say the words—“demanding an audience.”
    Elizabeth began to move down the hallway flanked on either side by Essex and Cecil, in long strides with which the Gnome could hardly keep abreast. The queen seemed altogether undisturbed by the strange news.
    On the contrary, she seemed delighted.
    “So,” she said, “ ‘the Mother of the Irish Rebellion’ wishes to answer our interrogatory in person.”
    “So it seems, Your Majesty,” Cecil answered.
    Essex was annoyed. Whilst he certainly knew who Grace O’Malley was, he had no knowledge of an